


The Undertow

by kathryne



Series: The Past Forty Years [1]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Gen, Miscommunication, Pre-Series, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 18:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: "Uh, hello, hey, it's Frankie. You okay in there? Hi, hello-oo," she calls through the thin panel.  But it's not Robert who opens the door.  It's Grace.  And though she tosses her head back so she can frown down her nose at Frankie and insist, "I'm fine," she doesn't look it.  "Are not," Frankie says; before Grace can protest, she barges past her and through the door.*Did I mention that for some reason I'm still writing angsty pre-series stuff?  Because.  Oops.





	The Undertow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkthegale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkthegale/gifts).



> This also came from a request for tumblr prompts. In this case, Cara innocently asked for _on holiday_.
> 
> I continue to have too many feelings about Jane Fonda's face and Lily Tomlin's hair on tumblr at @sapphoshands. Come prompt more sad - and, uh, maybe less sad - stories!
> 
> Please see the notes at the end of the fic for content warnings.

Frankie Bergstein is not, repeat not, the sort of person who succumbs to seasickness. When the rocking of Mother Earth's arms becomes a little rougher, it's merely a sign that she needs to turn her consciousness outward, think about the conflicts facing the world, and ignore her petty bodily concerns. Last time they'd been on a cruise, she'd focussed her strength on getting out of Vietnam; this time, as the ship pitched and rose, she sent psychic support to the revolutionary armies in Argentina. So the fact that she hadn't left her and Sol's cabin since breakfast yesterday, well, it was just, she was concentrating so hard on giving off positive vibes that she didn't feel the need for food. Now the waters are calm, and her inner peace is restored.

Even though it's smooth sailing again, the dining room is barely half full. Frankie plonks herself down at an empty table to get a different view of the sea. Turns out the angle bounces the sun straight off the water into her eyes, so she spends lunch with her head down, ploughing through a couple extra servings of cucumber fish mousse to make up for lost time. Hey, she has to get her strength up if she's going to keep the good vibes flowing.

On her way back she wanders through the interior hallways, enjoying the novelty of not being bounced from wall to wall. More passengers are venturing out and Frankie smiles at them all, fed and happy and planning a sabotage run on the skeet-shooting range at the rear of the ship while the crew is still busy clearing up after the storm. She's pondering whether to drop the guns themselves or just the bullets overboard when she gets back to her cabin. As she's patting at her overalls, trying to remember which pocket has the key in it, she hears the toilet flush in the next cabin, then again, and again. One of the Hansons must still be feeling sick. If she tries real hard, she thinks she remembers seeing Grace's feathered Farrah-hair standing above everyone else across the room at lunch, so maybe Robert?

Frankie pauses, considering, then shrugs and knocks softly. She doesn't mind Robert, likes that Sol has someone he can call a friend to lean on in the cutthroat company firm he insisted on staying with even when she urged him to consider starting his own little environmental law office and selling her pineapple upside-down cake on the side. If he's gotta claw his way up the hostile corporate ladder, at least Robert's there too. Yeah, his wife's a putz, big hair and bigger eyes and that accent that just screams East Coast Ivy League privilege. But Robert can be pretty groovy, sometimes. She waits, then taps on the door again. "Uh, hello, hey, it's Frankie. You okay in there? Hi, hello-oo," she calls through the thin panel.

It's not Robert who opens the door. It's Grace. And though she tosses her head back so she can frown down her nose at Frankie and insist, "I'm fine," she doesn't look it: her eyes are bright and her colour high, but a dotting of sweat plasters her usually perfectly-coiffed hair to her forehead. She's leaning on the door with one hand, the other holding an embroidered green silk robe tight around her tiny waist.

Frankie gives her a good once-over, then meets her gaze, frowning skeptically. "Are not," she says; before Grace can protest, she barges past her and through the door. "Look, Grace," she says, turning, taking in the little cabin. Unlike hers next door, it's almost pristine, everything stored away in drawers and cupboards and the coverlet on the small bed pulled up tight under the pillows. The only mess, if you can call it that, is from several swimsuits laid out across the foot of the bed and a crumpled white bikini on the floor by the bathroom. "I've got a great cure for seasickness. Come on next door, I'll grind up some ginger root, get the steward to bring hot water. You'll feel like a new woman after one of my famous herbal teas."

Grace looks back and forth between the door and Frankie, who's now poking at the swimsuits. "I don't need to feel like a – a new woman, I…" She takes a step closer, leaving the door open, and speaks in a lowered tone. "I am _not_ seasick, Frankie. I mean, thank you very much for offering, but it's really not necessary. I'm just a bit… tired."

The colour's fading from her cheeks, but that only makes her look clammier. Frankie sniffs. "Don't want to ruin Robert's holiday, huh? Hey, no problem, just show up on deck in one of these tomorrow and he'll forgive and forget." She holds a black one-piece up against herself and glances down. It's got the kind of plunging neckline that only someone like Grace can pull off. "It's no shame to get a little upset tummy now and again. Not everyone can have the cast-iron digestion I do." Dropping the suit, she pats her midriff smugly. "Pretty sure I was a pirate in a past life. Or some kind of seaman, anyway." Seaman… seaman… Frankie looks at the discarded bikini, then up at Grace, who still has her arms crossed over her waist like she's protecting a secret.

"Oh, sweet Sowathara," Frankie squeals, jumping across the room and throwing her arms around Grace. She squeezes tight, ignoring Grace's startled stiffness, and rocks them back and forth until she starts feeling a little _mal de mer_ again herself. "Grace, are you knocked up?"

"Frankie!" Grace says urgently, and Frankie pulls back just enough to see her startled face and the still-open door.

"Yeah, of course, don't need to tell the whole boat – but oh, Grace, you're preggers! Congratulations! Does Robert know? What am I saying, of course he knows if you're puking all the time, hard to miss, right?" Frankie nudges Grace with an elbow, but gently, gently. Grace still looks a little stunned. Probably didn't expect anyone to guess so soon. She can't be far along – she's certainly not showing – but, well, Frankie just knows these things, she can't help it. 

She clasps Grace's hands in hers and beams up at her. "Have you two lovebirds been trying long?" she demands, steamrollering over Grace's attempts to answer. "We've been trying too, but don't say anything, Sol doesn't want anyone at the office to find out until there's something to share. Wouldn't it be fab if our kids grow up together?" Already Frankie's forgetting her dislike of Grace in the rosy picture she's spinning out. "Did you know when it happened? Some women say they can tell. What do you think, boy or girl? Position at conception makes a difference, of course. If you were on top, you're going to have a girl!" She winks. "Me and Sol, I guess we're just going to have to raise a whole brood of brilliant daughters."

Hugging herself in delight, she dances across the room, lost in her imagination. "Oh, I can't wait. Pregnancy's going to be wonderful. Giving life with my body, embracing the divine feminine within us all, going all Venus of Willendorf with curves out to _here_ – "

Grace is looking a little green around the gills again, but she moves fast, stopping Frankie mid-twirl and giving her a little shake. "I'm _not – fucking – pregnant_ ," she enunciates clearly, face inches from Frankie's. 

"Oh." Frankie blinks at her. "Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry – "

" _I'm_ not!" Grace retreats, putting as much distance between them as possible in the tiny room. She clutches her robe tight at her neck as if warding off disaster. "We're not _trying_ , my God, Robert wants to but I – " She shudders. "No control – walking around for nine months like – your body never your own afterward, I can't…" She shakes her head vigorously.

Frankie looks at her in amazement. "But, Grace, don't you want a sweet little baby to cuddle and love?"

"To – I can't imagine…" Grace stands up even straighter. "I don't know if I…" She swallows, fumbling for words. "I – it's _easy_ to get pregnant, but it's hard to decide, I just, I have… I have other things to do, Frankie, don't you get that?"

"Easy, huh?" Frankie hears the dismissal with all the pain of each month her period shows up on time when she hopes so much to be late, to have an excuse to send Sol to the store for a pregnancy test, to be able to sit with him in the bathroom and laugh and start planning for their baby's future. The goodwill she felt towards Grace disappears in a flash. "Figures." She sniffs. "You think you're so much better than other women, don't you? Too good to get pregnant. Not you, not the great Grace Hanson, you're better than that, you're too perfect to – to do something as messy, as natural, as having a baby, am I right?"

"Well." Grace is pale, now, her eyes stark in her white face, but she still holds herself tall. "You don't know anything about any of that, do you. Not perfection _or_ pregnancy." She reaches out with one trembling hand and pulls the door wider. "I think you'd better leave now," she says softly.

"Yeah. I think I better." Frankie stalks out with her head high and her jaw set. Grace closes the door behind her, leaving her standing in the middle of the corridor, trying to get a grip on herself. After a few minutes, she hears the toilet flush again.

She's too angry to go into her cabin, so she sets out for a circuit of the ship. She'll buzz by the skeet range even though she's probably not in the mood for stealth. Well, what'll they do if they catch her, throw her overboard? Hah. Her husband's a lawyer, dammit, and they're going to have a wonderful family, and she'll bring them all up to be activists. They'll bond in jail together fighting for disarmament. And Grace, well, Grace can – Grace can just sit on it. She nods firmly. 

On her fourth frustrated trip around the upper deck, she bumps into Robert. He's holding one of the plastic horses that will compete in the shipboard races that evening. So far Frankie's refused to go on the grounds that it glorifies real horse racing, but Robert stops her anyway. "Frankie!" he exclaims, holding his horse up for her inspection. He's painted it to look like the Cruise Director from _The Love Boat_ , right down to ribbons twined around its neck. It's not a great representation, but she can tell from the brush strokes that he's spent several painstaking hours on it. "What do you think?" He's practically glowing, proud of this dumb little horse in a way she's never seen him proud of anything before.

"Real nice," she says, and then she's caught with a surge of sadness for the poor man, stuck with frigid, up-herself Grace. No wonder he's finding joy in something as silly as a plastic horse. "I mean, it looks great, Robert. I'm sure it'll, uh, go fast." He smiles and she smiles back, feeling a little calmer. "Have you seen Sol?" 

"Yeah, I think he's watching the ice-carving competition." Robert jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the staircase down to the lower decks. "See you at dinner?"

That's right. They're at the same table. Frankie almost managed to forget. Instead she's struck with the realisation that she's going to have to see Grace's damned perfect hoity-toity face three times a day for the rest of the trip. That's not Robert's fault, though, and she forces a polite nod and false cheer. "You betcha. Good luck with your horsie."

"Thanks, Frankie. On, Trigger!" Robert wanders off to drum up support from the other passengers, and Frankie takes the stairs down, thoughts whirling in her brain. She's gonna find Sol, that's what she's gonna do, and then they're gonna go back to the cabin and she's gonna bang his brains out as loud as possible and try and make a baby. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. After, she's going to dress him up for dinner in his fabulous houndstooth suit, and she's going to do her hair all fancy for once, and then she's going to polite the pants off Grace. She'll show that bottle blonde what perfect looks like.

And when they get home, if she's got any say in it, she and Sol are going to make some new friends.

There he is – coming to the bottom of the stairs, she sees Sol, looking back and forth between two sculptures on display next to the pool. She sneaks up behind him, placing a hand on his back and wiggling under his arm. "Hi, honey," she says, leaning up to place a quick kiss on his cheek and a longer one on his mouth. He pulls back, looking a little dazed, and she tucks her arm around his waist and tugs him close. "Want to hear about the exhaustive on-board itinerary I've planned for us this afternoon? Let me tell you, it's very exploratory, but we're not going to see much new scenery, if you know what I mean."

He grins down at her, a shock of black hair falling over his forehead, her beautiful perfect husband who's going to give her beautiful perfect daughters to make a beautiful perfect family. "Well, all right then," he says, eyes twinkling. "Let's get to it."

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: this fic deals (obliquely, but still) with Grace's history of disordered eating.


End file.
